Unforgiving
by turn around bright eyes x
Summary: Only one name in Draco's head and one picture in Draco's memory keep him from forgetting who he is. It's a simple picture of a simple boy who makes Draco's heart feel real. Harry Potter. (oneshot, a bit twisted, Drarry, Rated T for character death)


Harry writhes in his bed. In his dreams Lord Voldemort is back. Sweat stains his sheets as he muffles his pain into his pillows.

When he wakes he is shivering, clutching the bed like a life saver. His forehead is clammy, his chest is milky. What is he doing with his life anyway?

He gets up to his feet, stuffs his glasses between the crook of his ear and on the bridge of his nose. Harry dresses quickly and looks at the time. It's 3 am in the morning. Across from him Ron is snoring soundly, unaffected by anything.

The door creaks as Harry slowly shuts it and disappears into the hallway. It is still night in the house, no lights. He hears Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's soft snoring as he passes their door.

Hermione and Ginny's door is open a slight crack and he pauses by the door. Ginny is crying it seems. It's two days after the Great War and they are all still numb.

"Shh, it's okay, Ginny," Hermione is saying. She sounds on the verge of tears herself.

Harry feels a heartbeat of pain, but shakes it out. He cannot afford to think of pain, of hurting them. Instead he continues down the hallways, down the stairs and out the door.

The night is chilly, but nothing stirs. Harry thinks of Ginny, of Hermione, of Ron. How are they holding up? Are they like him, scared out of their minds? Panicking over everything? Harry thinks of Neville, Luna and Cedric. Is Neville okay? Does Neville think of his own parents? Are his parents proud of him? And Luna, what about her? Is her father in Azkaban for double crossing them? Harry hopes he's not. Xanier was a good man.

And Cedric. Cedric is dead, so why is Harry thinking of him? He sees a pale lifeless body, hair that made the Hufflepuff girls go wild. A bitter taste sinks into Harry's mouth. Death.

But most of all, Harry ponders the most about Draco.

Yes, Draco Malfoy.

Is he still breathing? Why did he save him? Why did Draco's mother save him? Why is Draco always on his thoughts?

Disheveled pale blonde hair, sinister blue eyes. Pale milky skin and a voice that cut like knives. This is how Harry remembers Draco.

All day, all night. Draco paces by the crackling flames, holding his head. It feels like it's going to split and it isn't a pleasant feeling at all. Draco is plagued by headaches, of pain in his left forearm. The tattoo is burning nearly everyday but the Dark Lord is dead. How is this happening?

His father's voice echoes in his ears, "You're imagining it, boy."

The voice is cold and dangerous, but right. Lucius hasn't had any trouble with his mark, so why is Draco imagining stupid things?

"Shut up!" He bellows into his hands. He screams and tears are flowing down his narrow face.

He runs long skinny fingers through his blonde hair and tilts his head up, trying to calm down and breathe. The war has been hard on the Malfoy's. Draco can barely eat, barely sleep. He thinks of everything he has done wrong in his 17 years of life and wonders if he should keep on going.

He was a mean vicious boy. Terrorized the muggles in his school until moving onto Hogwarts. He remembers hurting an innocent little boy. Twisting his arm so far behind him he almost broke it. He feels the ice around his heart cracking as he remembers more painful memories. And finally he feels it.

He feels remorse as the ice shatters and breaks into tens of millions of hundreds of pieces. It really hurts, he thinks, as remorse fills his veins.

It's like Draco is being held down in a bucket of ice water until he starts to black out, then he is given air, only to be pushed back into the water. He chokes on his breath as visions of Dumbledoor rush by.

And finally the picture that makes him crack.

Not an extremely graphic or horrifying picture. Just a simple picture of a simple person has made Draco's heart pound.

The eyes, almond and green. The hair, tussled and chestnut brown. The nose, sloped in a friendly way. The mouth, thin and unsmiling.

Just a simple picture of Harry Potter.

Five months after the Great War has passed. Ron, Hermione, Harry, Luna, Neville and Ginny stand huddling in a circle. None of them are smiling, it is not a time for smiling. They kick the ground, nervous and they don't know what to say. It hasn't been normal in a long time. All of them have changed.

They look up as Mr. Weasley takes the podium.

"Thank you," he chokes, "all. For coming to the funeral of George Harold Weasley, son of mine and Molly's. He will always be deeply loved by all. We are so sorry our son had to choose this way of leaving this world, just when things were beginning to look better. We are sorry we never saw the signs. We are sorry he chose to…to…to take his own life. I do hope he's happy."

Mr. Weasley pauses and starts to cry. Percival joins his father onstage, "I am sorry about my brother. We hope he is happy, and that he and Fred are running wild up there."

The crowd lets a thin smile escape them before looking solemn again.

Draco is insane.

He lies in the hospital bed beside Gilderoy Lockhart and across the room lay Neville's parents. Every time he lifts his head he feels sick, knowing his Aunt Bella has done this to such innocent people.

Draco doesn't know much. He sleeps the majority of his time there. His father has stopped visiting after two weeks and Draco has a sickening suspicion that his father is gone for good. He has left his weak son behind.

Even Pansy Parkinson has moved on, no longer the jealous love sick girl. She has grown up and moved out of the Wizarding world into Muggle London. She cannot stand living in the same place where her whole family perished.

Only one name in Draco's head and one picture in Draco's memory keep him from forgetting who he is. It's a simple picture of a simple boy who makes Draco's heart feel real.

Harry Potter.

One afternoon Ginny enters the Weasley home, all smiles. She is happy for some reason. Why she's happy, Harry wants to know, when she's working in St. Mungo's?

"What's up?" Harry asks, confused when his voice comes out differently. He hasn't done much talking lately and he hasn't noticed his voice has changed. It is now detached and lifeless.

"Draco Malfoy in the hospital. He's crazy," she says, smiling, like she thinks it'll make Harry feel better.

Instead all Harry feels is a sudden drop in his gut. But he manages a brief smile, says, "Wonderful!", and is off to bed.

That night Harry dreams of something different. It is not of his family dying, nor is it about being lost and alone. It is of him, lost, but not alone. There is a figure walking next to him and it is not til the end of the dream that he realizes who the figure is.

Narrow, skinny. Long-ish hair. A pointed nose, broad shoulders.

The person next to him is Draco Malfoy.

The next day Harry visists St. Mungos. He doesn't know why, but the black haired boy feels a certain pull towards this blond devil. As he goes up the elevator he thinks about what Draco is up to now? Is he lifeless, like he is? Or is he mad, angry at the world?

He opens the door to Draco's ward. He passes wizards moaning and writhing on beds before he sees what he is here for. Blond shaggy hair, like a halo around a skinny narrow face. Haunting blue eyes catch his own green ones.

"Hello, Draco," to his surprise, his voice is not detached or lifeless. It has a certain tilt to it.

"Potter?" the voice coming from the bed is weak, but desperate.

Draco feels the blood rushing through his veins. He can hear his heartbeats. He hopes Harry will stay. Draco wants to feel his heart beating, to know that he is still alive, and not dead like how he feels these past weeks. Draco feels dead alone, but Harry Potter makes him feel alive.

"I heard you were insane," Harry lets out a bitter laugh.

"I am," Draco whispers. _With you_, Draco adds in his head.

"Where's your parents?" Harry's voice is harsh and unforgiving.

"Gone. I don't know where," the pale blond boy shrugs his thin shoulders.

Harry sits on the bed and watches Draco. He watches winces of pain. Of shudders that wrack his body. Draco is sickly, but still beautiful. To Harry, always beautiful.

"You know," Harry begins, his voice choked up now, "you're hateful. You're spiteful, evil. You want power and control. You hate those lower than you. And now you're mad and I'm happy you're mad. I hate you, I really hate you."

With every word Draco feels a punch to his stomach. It hurts.

"Then go," he manages to get out.

Harry ignores this, "But it is always you. You who I think of all throughout the day. You who I wonder about. Why? Why is it you?"

Draco stares.

And Harry leans forward. He grasps Draco's chin in one hand and roughly kisses his lips.

Draco's heart pounds.

"I love you," Draco says.

"I don't," Harry whispers. His eyes trace Draco's.

Soon after Harry's visit, Draco gets a newspaper handed to him. He sits up in bed and scans it quickly. Not very interesting. Then a tiny picture in the upper left hand corner stands out to him. It's Harry.

He quickly reads the article before his eyes well up with tears. The chosen one, it reads, is dead. Committed suicide a few days ago. Draco's heart rips in half.

Because the world is an unforgiving place, it steals a few hearts with no second thoughts.


End file.
